Page 41 of The Vagabond

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

“Someone slid into Kadri’s seat, and I need to find that someone.”

“You think you’re going to find that someonehere?”

His gaze flicks back to mine. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

He smiles, just barely. “Sounds like that would make you sad.”

“More like I’d be the first one dancing on your grave, Fed.”

He doesn’t get a chance to answer as Mason barrels in like a wrecking ball in a thousand-dollar suit.

“What thefuckare you doing here?” Mason’s voice cuts the air in half.

Brando’s right behind him, suit jacket pushed back just enough to flash the gun holstered at his hip. Classic Brando.

I slide between them, palms up like that’ll stop the testosterone from exploding all over the marble.

“Mason,stop?—”

“He doesn’t belong here.”

Saxon barely moves. “I’m not here for you.”

Mason’s mouth twists into something cold. “No, you’re here forher.”

“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t make this about me.”

Brando steps in closer. “We’ve got enough problems without suits sniffing around. You trying to make us targets again?”

“I’m here on offical business,” Saxon growls. “Aviary business.”

“Kadri’s dead,” Brando reminds him.

“That may be,” Saxon says, green eyes piercing through my brother in law, “but the Aviary is alive and kicking.”

The room goes silent around us. Not really—but in my head, it’s all static and adrenaline. My pulse is thunder. My breathing is fire.

Saxon North is relentless.

I grab Saxon’s wrist and pull him away before someone throws the first punch. He lets me. Of course he does. There’s that same sick, familiar tension between us—magnet and metal, orbit and destruction.

We end up near one of the tall windows, the music distant now, our reflections flickering in the glass like ghosts.

“You can’t be here,” I hiss, stepping into his space like I can physically shove him out of mine. “You know that. They hate you. They’ll bury you.”

My heart is thundering. My palms are sweating. And every cell in my body is vibrating with adrenaline—the kind that screamsrun,even while something deeper whispersstay.

Saxon doesn’t flinch.

“I’m not scared of Mason Ironside or Brando Gatti.”

“You should be.” My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms. I stare up at him, jaw tight, fury trembling just beneath my skin.“They will kill you in between breaths, and you won’t even have a chance to sneeze.”

That should scare him. Hell, it scaresme.But instead of backing off, instead of taking the very obvious warning tattooed in my voice, Saxon smirks. That lazy, lopsided grin that disarms me like a switchblade.

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